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Ch. 7: The Sampo
Back to The Men in Brown The boys awaited Root’s arrival the next day with some impatience. Today was warmer, but rain still brooded in the grey soft sky. “There they are!” Charlene exclaimed, flouncing down the stairs. “What’s been keeping you so busy? Can you boys come and play?” “We had homework.” said Chris. “And we wanted to catch old man Root so we can ask him something.” said Stephen. “Don’t you have school?” “C’mon, it’s a whole hour till the bus. I want to spy on the Wizard!” “Are you '' crazy?!” both boys exploded. “He’d, like, skin you alive!” “Or turn me into a toad?” she said saucily. “I just want to know where he lives. Mom thinks he’s homeless.” “He can’t be.” said Chris. “He scares bears away from his chickens.” “Well, he’s always coming down this hill or going ''up '' it. And Julian says he lives around here. She won’t tell me how she knows. We can just go up the street and see if we spot his bike.” The boys agreeing to this, they set off uphill. The street curved steep and abrupt, old houses standing neatly and yet oddly beside it, as if sprouted from the hill. They rejected the fenced yard—all dogs barking and no chickens—as well as the house with the pointed yard between two streets. They passed house after house, but none of them looked eccentric enough to be the Wizard’s dwelling. “Where does that driveway go?” said Charlene. A regular paved drive led back to a detached house, bordered with dark spruce; but to the left of it, grown with dandelions, was a narrower lumpy drive like a dirt road. It was paved with a sort of black gravel. “I don’t know. We never noticed it before.” said Chris. “Let’s go down and see.” “That’s trespassing!” “Just a little way in, OK? Sheesh, you boys are wimps.” “We are not! We just don’t want to get arrested.” The drive had a fringe of young trees, beech and a mammoth old maple. Two tall white birch stood like gateposts either side of it. Nailed to one was a rumpled metal sign saying very plainly NO TRESPASSING. “I wish it was Halloween, then we could just come down and trick-or-treat.” said Charlene. “With a sign like that? What if they have dogs?” “I’m just going to the bend. I want to see if there’s anyone even living here.” said Charlene scornfully. With trepidation the boys tagged along behind her. The drive made a sharp left around a grove of young pines and entered woods. It was very leafy and green and beautiful. They paused at the bend. A little stream tinkled under a rough bridge of wood beams, pale granite gravel replacing the ground-up asphalt. Birch and swamp maple arched over it in a sort of aisle. Then there was a little rise, and partly hidden by branches, masoned walls and a brown door. And leaning against a tree was a bike. “Ohmigosh, it’s his bike.” said Charlene. “Let’s get out of here!” urged Stephen. “That didn’t look like his bike.” said Chris as they raced back up the drive. “Wizard has a basket. I didn’t see a basket.” “You think so?” said Charlene. “Aw man. And here I was thinking we’d found him!” “Root would probably ask you why you want to find him.” grinned Chris. “What do you mean, why! Because he’s weird, and fascinating, and I want to know.” “Yeah, then Root would probably draw all sorts of deep answers you never knew existed, out of that remark.” “This tutor of yours sounds as crazy as the Wizard.” she said. “Crazy or weird, make up your mind.” “You said that before.” Charlene commented. “Well, so what, I can repeat myself occasionally.” They were at the last steep before their yard. Chris was glancing around rather apprehensively. Charlene skipped ahead impatiently. “I see you two don’t know how to read!” a voice from the hedge made them jump. Root had been sitting on one of the wooden chairs scattered around the small yard inside the hedge. His strange serious eyes stared at them accusingly. “Um…what do you mean?” said Stephen. “Holy sh--! You scared the cra(b) out of me!” exclaimed Charlene. “Your pants remain remarkably clean.” said Mr. Root coldly. “And you are of course correct, Christopher, that I would ask that question. I would however ask even farther. Why is it that you are so intrigued by the man known as Nuncle Jimmy?” “Holy cow, did you have us like bugged or something?!” shouted Charlene. Root looked over the hedge. “You were scarcely one hundred and twenty feet away. Even one of duller hearing than I could have overheard you loudmouths. Do you really think that because you do not notice the world around you when you talk, that it cannot hear you? Are you possessed of the power of Forest? Perhaps it is a result of gabbing on your cell phone at the top of your lungs, that you ignore environment. Now perhaps you could answer my question.” “Um…I don’t know. I mean, he’s mysterious. And handsome. And I just like spying.” “Do you know what usually happens to spies?” said Root grimly. “Look at the crows. Cawing, carrying tales, feeding on carrion: roadkill hunters. Spies are professional betrayers. Their livelihood is betrayal. It matters not which side they serve. Do not be misled by the romance novels. They are traitors. And like all traitors, if caught they are hung.” “You…you don’t mean…” Root stuck his face right into hers. “It’s dangerous to snoop, catface.” he snarled, so harshly she gave back a few steps. “Your nose might be bitten. Do you stick your hands into dark crevices? If you do you might get stung. Leave others alone—and they’ll leave you alone. Now get out. If I ever catch you snooping on the Wizard not only will I tell your parents, I’ll have you arrested for stalking. You think they can’t jug juveniles on that? Think again.” He headed inside. “It’s time for school, boys.” “You seriously think she’s gonna listen?” said Chris skeptically when they were inside. “That is up to her.” said Root. “If she pries into the business of the Men in Brown, she may well find herself caught between them…and that for which they were called.” “And what is that?” whispered Chris. “Why were you called?” “To hunt the Nine Lords of the Night.” answered Root. Somehow the very sound of that name sent a weird, alien chill into both of them. Neither felt inclined to ask any further. “Um, we had something to ask you.” said Steve. Root lifted an invitatory eyebrow. “These dreams Chris has. These Sleeper guys. Like, how many are there? And why are they all sleeping?” “Cause I saw some more last night.” said Chris. Root glanced down the apartment to Mom’s closed door: she could be heard bumping around and getting ready. “Later.” he muttered. “That’s Brown business. Now!” he said in a louder voice. “You two had breakfast, I hope?” “Yes, ages ago, and we’re hungry again.” said Chris. “Starve till lunch.” said Root crushingly. Mom came out while he was setting up papers and they talked about the homework and the boys’ weak spots until it was time for her to leave. She kissed both the boys and got in her car, and drove off. “I kinda wish she didn’t have to work.” said Stephen. “So do I,” said Root, “for it is not right that the homekeeper should play the homemaker and go out to win the bread; but such are the evil times in which we live. And it’s not like I can just sing up money from the ground.” he added, with another of his dry smiles. “Um, about the sleepers…” said Chris. “Why are they sleeping?” “There is only one way for a mortal to live over great spans of time.” said Root. “His biological life must be suspended or sidestepped. The fruit of the Tree of Life which Enoch and Elias eat every hundred years undoes their bodies’ aging, restoring vigour and youth: but they are old, immeasurably old, and their very hearts are weary. The other way is to stop growth, and also decay: an enchanted sleep, a suspension of animation. By one way and another, by spell or treachery, curse or ''vallfarnda, from every age a hero lies asleep, waiting for the great battle. And in other places, too, they wait: across the fearsome Rainbow in the grim halls of Vallhalla, where the ghosts of the Norse heros, harvested with care, endure their wait, the wait their purgation, for the last onset of the giants. Now they are awakening.” “How many are there?” “There are exactly thirty such legends of Sleeping Heros.” Root answered. “In addition there are two legends of mountains that are actually prone giants cast into slumber, and held as sacred by the Indians: the Sleeping Mountain of the Utes, and the Prone Man of Connecticut, called simply Sleeping Giant. You will not see them rise, unless you have the misfortune to still be living when the Lord of the Darkness walks up from the South to take the Gates of the North.” “The what?” “North of here by two miles.” answered Root. “But that’s not your story. Those mountains were both giants, but very different beings. One was the oldest of all Bards, who sang to the very Unbegotten themselves in the morning of the world: but being a Singer he loved the world and the growing things, and found himself thus at odds with his kinsmen, and sang his songs less, until at last he laid himself to sleep and slowly turned into stone. They say that Väinämöinen himself spoke to him once, when he had not been rooted long and flesh still pulsed beneath the rocky skin: but that is another story. That is one of the giants, the ancient Wipunen, laid in slumber by the malice of the queen of death, Tuonela. The other—is the Moon himself.” “Huh?” “But that is another story, and in any case I am supposed to be reviewing your week’s lessons with you, so we can see if anything sunk through those skulls of yours.” Both boys groaned dismally. “Now,” he said, when they had gotten through several of the tests and lunch was near at hand, “you said, Chris, that you had another dream.” “Several.” said Chris. “Weird ones. I was looking down at this bright white-lit town, I think it must have been German cause it felt like it, and there was a broad deep river, and the river was spanned by a great squat bridge. Square sloped thick buttresses parted the river between each solid round arch. Three of the stones were loose: the cement had long since decayed around them, but a crust of moss had kept the sand from washing away. I watched in growing tension as a mason bee pushed out sand to make a nest, and suddenly all three stones fell in the river. The earth shook. Out of the earth burst a king, earth crumbling in hair and crown and falling from him when he walked. The stones have fallen from Gonslar bridge, he said in a mighty voice. Now Henry the Fowler walks among men. '' “Then there was a cave, and it had once been full of moss but the moss was eaten to the roots and the walls were brown and bare. A horse, white with black splotches, was facing a patch of wall where a single clump of moss still grew. The horse’s jaws moved like a snail’s and its’ eyes were shut. Nearby sat a monstrous man asleep, a huge black mustache over a fierce and awful face, a cloak of wolfskins round his shoulders, a cap of wolf-head on his hair. A giant mace leaned against him, it had those long funny ridges on the head—“ “Flanges.” said Root. “Was there a sabre sticking in the rock?” “Yeah, but it had been thrust in pointing up, I guess, because gravity had pulled it nearly out and it was pretty much dangling by its’ tip. The horse’s jaws moved slowly, so slowly, to compass and tear loose the last bit of moss. Many minutes later it began to chew. Half an hour later it swallowed. With a clang the great sabre landed on the ground. And the man’s eyes opened.” “That sounds like Marko Kraljevic, also named Mrnjavcevic.” said Root. “He has drunk the eagles’-water and cannot be harmed, and his strength is without match. The horse is named Sarac, and can understand the speech of men, and leaps for fifty feet. If he has woken by himself, without Wayham King nearby, we may be hearing some very interesting reports in the news.” “There was one more dream.” said Chris. “It was a construction scene: men were digging a new drain somewhere. An ancient city lay around, spoiled by the skyscrapers rising around and out of it. In front of me was a square-built gate in the old walls, square towers and a broad Byzantine arch. And Wayham King, with the Seven Sleepers and no one else, walked past me. ''It will be here, '' said Wayham. ''Art sure that this is that fabled fort, that rose north of the Pelargir I knew? '' Amandil asked him.” “That would be the Golden Gate, in modern Istanbul.” said Root. “Along the inlet connecting the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. For the Bosporus creek is all remaining of the drowned river, great Anduin; and there upon the ruins of Tirith stands Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. The same name kept through dislocations: Minas Tirith, corrupted, renamed, yet still the same.” “You mean from the ''Lord of the Rings??” both boys yelped. “Say it fast: Minas Tirith, Byzantium, Constant’nople, Istanbul. You see? An old name corrupted. Tolkien hit upon it by instinct. But go on.” “Well,” said Chris, “the workmen hit something and stopped digging. There was a lot of shouting. Then they heaved up by the shovel-bucket a life-size statue of gold marble. It was a king recumbent, a folded cloth clasped to his breast. The foreman was saying they were rich and this antique must be worth a fortune, when Wayham cleared his throat. The workers were yelling, ‘Who are you, and what’s the idea with the funny costume?’ and Wayham said, ‘Constantine XI, last emperor of Byzantium before the Saracen came, the King commands you to render your charge!’ And the statue turned into flesh, and sat up, robed in purple, looking confused. He knelt to Wayham and bent his head to touch the ground. '' I render up the last treasure of the ancient city,'' he said.'' I swore as the Saracen poured in I would not lay it down until I laid it at the feet of the last King. And I felt stone flow up through me.” '' “And the cloth…what was it?” Root asked. He seemed anxious, even tense. “It was…a banner.” said Chris slowly. “Wayham unfurled it. It was black, but in the brightest and purest silver I’ve ever seen a crown was wrought on it, and gems that glowed like stars were sewn in an arch above it, and underneath was a pure white tree.” “That was it.” nodded Root. “The standard of the King. Tell me, did he furl it, or did he brandish it?” “He furled it, pretty quickly.” said Chris. “I could just barely see what was on it as he was folding it around its’ pole.” “Then we have a little time yet.” murmered Root. “If the last end was on us, he would have brandished it, and his army issued to battle.” “To battle who?” said Chris. “The police?” “No.” said Root. “The ones who come out of the Caves of the Forgotten.” “The ones from my first dream.” whispered Chris. “Those??” “They are stirring.” said Root grimly. “The last battle will not be fought in one place, nor on one level. Many threats will come against us from many sides: and just as the Men in Brown were gathered here for the threat of the Night, so the Sleeping Kings are being gathered to gainsay the Forgotten Host.” “When is King Arthur going to come into this?” said Stephen carelessly. “He’s supposed to return, too, you know.” “Arthur died.” said Root. “They found his bones. He cannot come back, unless he comes back from the dead. But many of the sleepers you have seen have not been living ones.” When literature class finally arrived, the boys said, “Tell us more of Väinämöinen.” “There was an artifact of great power associated with him.” Root said. “The Sampo. An enchanted grinder, whose rainbow lid rolled endlessly around and round its’ rim, like those rides at the carnival, how are they called, Tilt-a-whirls? From one side it ground salt. From another it ground grain. From the third side it shed gold in shining drops. Yet it perished, shattered underneath the sea, in the great wars it caused. This is how it came to be made. “Väinämöinen took Aino’s body out to be laid within the sea. “Son of Air and son of Water, my bride now receive as daughter! Take, O Father, my bride’s body, give to her a fitting resting.” But even as he cast the dead maid into the sea, from farthest Northland, cold and cheerless, grim Poyohla, an ancient witch espied the wizard. She puzzled how to call him thither, until at last she sent a storm-wind so powerful it tossed Väinämöinen here and there, seven days upon waves swimming. The son of Water could not be drowned, but hurt and battered he was sorely. Cast at last on Louhi’s coast, the witch she gave to him warm welcome. “I am Louhi, Pohyola’s mistress.” she greeted him. She cured his many minor bruises, cuts and woundings from the water. Then knowing of his new bereavement, she promised one of her own daughters if the wizard could conjure up the mighty Sampo all the Northland knew of. It had never yet been made, though the possibility of it was well known among the singers, of all who knew the songs of power. But Väinämöinen, old and steadfast, knew he had not the skill needed. ‘Cannot forge for thee the Sampo, cannot win the bride of beauty.’ But his brother Ilmarinen, smith most mighty, from whose forges came the crystal vaults of heaven, he could doubtless build the Sampo. “ ‘Bring him, then, to build the Sampo, or at least tell of the prize.’ Louhi bade him. ‘Else wilt not speed ye to your homeland.’ But steadfast ancient Väinämöinen looked with grim brows on his hostess. Felt in her an evil power; felt in her the songs of Hiisi. ‘Do not need thy aid in going, who am son of air and water. Can sing up a steed of magic, me to ride upon the billows. I have passed into Tuoni, have eluded nets of copper, nets that trap all of the living, nets that draw to thence the dying.” And Louhi smiled falsely on him: ‘What kept thee in the bitter water, thou the son of Airhome’s daughter? Many such storms roam these waters. Cannot tell when meet another.’ And he knew what she was saying, knew as well his power’s limits. Not yet could he strive against her, until many songs had gathered, Picked them from the berry-bushes, plucked them off the slender birch-twigs, rolled the songs up into bundles, forged a music-harp much stronger. So perforce he sent word from her, to bring to him his own brother.” Root, who had fallen into a chant once again, resumed a normal voice. “Ilmarinen came in power, girt with armour of great magic, girt with bow and girt with weapons, to break free his mighty brother. But Louhi, ever crafty, had her daughters come to greet him. Confused, bewildered, his heart captured, the smith agreed in daze to build her, to forge her the mighty Sampo, if he could have hand of daughter. He built a forge and Louhi brought him every ingredient that he asked for. When the ingredients were blended, when was heated magic fire, Ilmarinen worked the bellows, blending words along with fire. But the Sampo did not form. First emerged a magic crossbow, filled with malice: he it shattered. Then it formed a magic plow, full malicious: he it shattered. Cannot work the bellows harder, cannot sing him any greater. So he lashed to them the Gales, chained the Wind to work the bellows. While it blows the great smith singeth, sings him mightier than ever. In the coals the Sampo rises, gleaming, flashing many colors. Louhi quickly took the Sampo, buried it behind nine locks. Ilmarinen asked for her daughter. But the maid, who was witch-hearted, daughter to a heartless mother, now the blacksmith she refuses, denies the hero her hand promised. Said he unto Väinämöinen, ‘Louhi she now holds the Sampo, I have not the Bride of Beauty.’” Root fell silent. “Yay, no mushy stuff.” applauded Stephen. “That was so mean.” said Christopher. “The girl promised, and then she breaks it. They didn’t let her get away with it, did they?” “No.” said Root. “Thence arose the great wars of the Sampo. The three heros, Lemminkainen sung back from death by tears of mother, Ilmarinen and Väinämöinen, strove to recapture the Sampo. They were successful, for Väinämöinen had forged him his enchanted harp of power, the kantele, from the jawbones of a pike: his songs now were trebled in force. But as they sailed home they had to duel Louhi herself in the form of a bird, and the Sampo was destroyed. Louhi determined to exterminate them, so she stole the Sun from out of the sky and stole the Fire from the northland: you could strike and strike and blow and blow, and no spark would appear nor kindling catch. So Väinämöinen hunted the Fire and found him, and broke seven of the nine locks that hid the Sun. Alone he could not break the rest: so all three sung against Louhi, and Ilmarinen began to forge, to forge so powerfully the entire earth shuddered, and Louhi in great fear freed the Sun. Now. We still have some lessons to learn. Do you want to learn to write Kalevala poetry?” “Could we? Awesome!” “Is it hard?” “If you have the music stuck in your head, words will compress and flow to fit it. I don’t expect you to master it, but we can at least try.” Back to The Men in Brown